Wings Of A Wizard
by Abby Ebon
Summary: Slash. AU. He doesn't know his name, but he knows he's thirteen, having grown up on the streets and with two years in a underground lab. He remembers life before being winged; and now, he's got his freedom, if caring for bird kids can be called that too.
1. 98 Normal? Not so much

**Wings Of A Wizard**

_Abby Ebon_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Disclaime_r: I do not own "_Harry Potter"; _or, as it turns out,_ "Maximum Ride"_. Please, no more birds dive poop-bombing my boyfriends car. Or, just no suing- sounds good, yeah?

_Note_; …yah, I've just got no excuse for this one; maybe…that childish little girl wish-whim of; "_wings are_ _pretty_?" 'Sides, do you know how _hard_ it was to think up a "Flock" name for Harry at 12 AM? I went through Sparky, Fledge(ling), "Origin", "_Alpha_", Cleveland (…_what the fuck?...-squeak-_) and now I'm sticking with Harry's name being, uh…

…London, you know – like "London Bridges"?, or, England – oh, or _London England!_ –_squeal_- it's _**Brilliant**_, _right_? Oh. Bite me; –_sticks out tongue_-!

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"_98% Normal? Not so much..."_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Eleven years old, and he didn't know his name; or if he was _truly_ even eleven. What he knew was grim stuff, real-world things, that kids, he guessed sometimes when he watched the normals (lucky ones) walk around in the park, weren't _supposed_ to know. He knew the best way to get sick was to linger after dark, when the restaurant clean-crews were finished with the chain restaurants, and eat the dumpster food. It was bad stuff, but it was food – and he wasn't turning his nose up at it. Better to be always sick, then to starve.

He knew that if he went anywhere near people who offered hand-outs, there was a price – always – for now, it was that he was too young to be on his own. So there would be "protection" offered, or thrust upon him. He'd be in someone's adult custody. After that, he might be off the streets, but he had something to offer, and there would be no escaping the gangs.

He watched who came and went, learned things by watching, made wise too early by it. If he starved, he knew, he'd be desperate enough to whore, and those sorts were bad and always on the look out for flesh-fonder. As long as he was sickly, he was an "undesirable". Hookers had haunted eyes, and pinched-thin cheeks, but they dare never sneeze.

He'd rather that, always and anyway – to sick and full, then come to be something worse. He knew too, that he had things about himself to hide; he was an unwanted 'unfortunate' – a victim – and that gained enough attention by friendly and predator eyes both. Better to be seen for what it _seemed_ that he was (and was, in truth, when it was all he wanted to be, content with being unwanted and free), then to claim some talent and be deemed a freak on the streets. He kept it between his lips and teeth, biting his tongue on what he didn't have words for, what it was he could do, if pressed. It was a tool, sometimes, it had its use; but it was, he knew, _fire_. It could burn him, just as with as much ease as he could seek to use it in turn.

"Lo, Bridges," an old man with bent body and wispy dirty hair smiled down at him without any teeth, "got any cigs? I'd trade you this bit?" He waved a book, taunting, and the boy, short for his claimed age of eleven, raised a black brow and widened green eyes at this pointed cruelty. Thin aged fingers pressed over cover title and author name, pointedly.

"Smokey, what you got? What's it called?" Bridges asked, half in whine. Old though he was, the man seemed to snicker at the youth. He was well-known for his name, and his love of nicotine, taking up the habit of yanking half-used smoking cigarettes from the street.

"Not that damned King, for sure, stuff like that ain't any good for you. Missus Bag-Lady yammered about your nightmares for weeks after, I says it was only _Firestarter_, about little girls, but she says no more like that." Smokey shared a grin with the boy called Bridges, who rolled his eyes at him after.

"Always got those nightmares, Smokey, ain't no book did that." The old man patted the boy on the shoulder, knowing just how lucky they were to still have the youth around them. He'd been found under the Bridge in winter, and if it weren't for Missus Bag-Lady going about her 'rounds, they never would have found the year old in the snow alive. Smokey had called the lad "Lucky", until the boy himself had read about boys changing their names when they got to be older in a fantasy book by Le Guin, then he insisted on being called a man-name, so Bridges it was, though Smokey thought him still as _Lucky_ Bridges, he'd never say so.

He was damned proud of the boy, he'd half-raised as his own, and better off being on the streets then growing up to go to war and die.

"I know, lad, but this one is just as good, I think, its good stuff by that McCaffrey woman, filled with dragons any boy ought to like that, I think." Bridges got a shine in his green eyes, and Smokey hid his grin knowing the hook had dug itself into the boy, as his back straitened up and he eyed the book in a hungry light.

"Smokes aren't good for you." Bridges said, worrying on his bottom lip, looking away then knowing he had shown his interest and half the game was lost. Smokey laughed then and it was hacking, most like a cough then anything else, with winter coming on too swiftly.

"Too much reading isn't any good for those pretty green eyes." Smokey warned in turn, having seen how the boy squinted to see now and then. Bridges pouted a bit, sulking, knowing that the game was won and he wasn't to be the victor. Handing over the cigs, Smokey passed the book in turn, and left the boy on the park bench.

Later that evening, when Smokey would come looking for the boy named Bridges, he wouldn't find him, but he would find to his cold-hearted dismay - the book _Dragonflight_ abandoned alone – thrown off the bench in disarray.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Bridges didn't like the streets. He liked this place less. Here he was always in a white room with padded-pillow walls, floors, and ceilings. First few days, food come in from under the metal slot in the door, he knew better then to eat it. He knew, too, that he was watched. He replayed it over and over in his head, how he'd gotten into this place.

He was trying – and failing – to make sense of it. It was around the time when people with homes and places to be went away from the park, but Bridges always stayed a little while longer then they did, so they paid no mind to him not leaving as they did. Even the joggers didn't stick around between dusk and dark, they came before or after, the between hours for a little while, were his.

Then there had been men in suits, official and government like, and Bridges had hid, quickly. He wanted nothing to do with those sorts, and wanted less to be noticed. He'd tried for most of life to not be noticed. It seemed, for a little while, to be in his favor. They kept looking, but they didn't find him – or whatever they looked for.

The ground had gotten cold, leeching the warmth from his limbs. He knew if he didn't move he'd fall asleep and not wake up. Or the men might find him. Bridges had decided to try and sneak away. He hadn't made it further then out from under the bench; then he'd been weighted down by heavy bodies on his back and body, and they'd wrestled the book away from him. He'd screamed and called, never having made such noise since he was a babe and hadn't known any better. He had been sure it might have been noticed. If it had been, it had been ignored, and Bridges had been stolen from everything he had ever known.

He hated them for that. He was determined they would regret it, he decided, grimly, he'd rather _die_ then let them do whatever they had planned for him. So, he didn't eat. And tried not to sleep, but he had to – and when he did, he knew he woke up drugged. He was tied down to a cold metal table, with something that wasn't duck tape, but kept him in place all the same.

He had started to scream even before the needle went into his eye. Sometimes he still dreamed of those same wailing, mewling screams. He woke in the dark, _but he could see_. Could see the shape of things could see their light – their color – and knew that if there was real light, he would see nothing at all. He would be blind.

He knew, now, what they were going to do with him; experiments. Whispers on the streets (because there were always whispers, about everything) told of little kids going missing, kids not too young to missed and too old to be of use – like him – there one day, gone in the night the next. These would be experiments, the kind science _could_ go, but shouldn't.

Bridges knew they didn't care what he did, if he lived, it would go on and on until he died, even his death would only be noted as but an annoyance. There were always others, other kids like him, from the streets and the unwanted homes of reluctant parents. As much as Bridges tried to dream, and in his dream, keep hope – he knew it something that adults who could do something wouldn't notice, or would turn a blind eye to. There were too many unfortunate little kids, and not enough eyes on them.

What these people were doing to him was awful, inhuman, but no one would know or care if he died. He vowed, then, after loosing his sight to something new and sickening strange, that he would live. Survive to escape – and then, then he would tell them all. _Ruin them_, as they had so thoughtlessly ruined _him_.

It was a matter of revenge that kept him going.

Hoping.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Big brown eyes were looking at him from the other side of a cage. Not his cage, her cage. He didn't call himself Bridges anymore; he'd stopped calling himself anything after the first scream had crossed his lips. They called him things though, like a pet, _Brit_ was the favorite. He didn't have a cage, not even the white room, that didn't mean he walked free.

Oh, no, never that. He wore a crazy-coat, it strapped his arms to his side, pinning them across his chest. They called it a strait jacket. Around his neck was an electric shock-collar, a metal bit of shiny, if he got away, it would send paralyzing jolts of electricity beating down his spine. Cruelly, if mocking, they chained his feet together in iron.

They'd worked on his ears, after his eyes. They were pointed and he could hear someone breathe even if he was blinded, always, by the light they tormented him by. Then they'd worked on his teeth, and mouth. His teeth were pointed. His tongue forked. He didn't taste anything anymore, but that could have just been a clue that they were piss-poor cooks. He'd told them so.

They were turning him into a freak. They'd worked on his skin then, as if to make up for the lack of taste-buds, his skin was _sensitive_ and new and scary ways. After weeks of the hopefully asked question; "…_how does_ that _and_ this _make you feel…?_", those words had taken a wholly different meaning. He still shuddered if he brushed against something blindly.

He was being transferred somewhere, he knew that much. They gloated about it. _You think its bad here, kid? Wait to you go to School_. It seemed he wasn't going alone. He almost resented the little girl, huddled in the cage, wide eyed and watching him like a hurt puppy. He had liked dogs, on the streets. Not now, they were yet another weakness to be used against him, now. In the dark, he watches her, and even if she _couldn't_ see him, she seems to know he was _there_ and watching her, so she watched the dark. Watched him, unknowing.

He wonders what she would think if she _were_ to see him. Would she scream? Cry? Beg…? He is glad she can not see him – now - even if it is a cruel thing to think. He'd almost forgotten the old vow, to flee, but his resolve hardens anew, while brown eyes watch him blindly.

"I'm called Brit." He says it, and his voice is husky and a pathetic thin thing that rasps like cold stone. It lisps-hisses a little. Those are the first words he's spoken willingly, not urged out of him by screams. He waits then, for her answer, he is good at it – solidly patient – but even so begins to wonder if she can speak.

"I…I don't know my name." It's a whisper, but fleeting. If not for his damned keen hearing, he would not have heard or understood the words.

"That's okay, seems we're in for the maximum ride, kid." Talking he learned long ago lets the time pass. If it means his fellow prisoner won't stare so fearfully into the dark, he'll be content with it.

"I like that." She says, with tilted chin and a smile on her lips.

"What?" It surprises him, and the words press out, seemingly eager to be heard.

"Maximum Ride, call me that." She tells him, matter-of-fact, something firm and sure about her as little as she is. He half-smiles, though she might never see it. Might never know it; for better, or worse.

"Alright, Max it is, then." He says in turn, hearing his own amusement in his voice, wondering if she can and understands it for what it is. He doubts it. For a long time, there is only the rattle of their metal cage. He does not know if they are traveling over road or by plane, does not want to know.

"What does Brit mean?" Max asks, small and hesitant again. It does not suit her, she is made of stronger stuff then this and he intends to let her know it, without saying so. Saying something means little. _It won't hurt, Brit, only a little. Promise it'll be over, Brit, before you know. _Most of what people say is made up all of lies. He won't lie to her, he promises himself without words, not ever. Not even if it might hurt her, he won't tell a lie.

"A joke, I guess, short for Britain. I think I'm from there, closer to London, England though." His voice edges toward his accent though it sounds like gravel dragging against stone, rumbling earth, like he has a bad cold, sick in his lungs.

"If _they_ call you that, I won't." Max decides, abrupt and short. She is very to the point, very rough around the edges. On the streets, such boldness would be weak. He finds it refreshing. He thinks he'll encourage her to be so, if he sees her again.

"What will you call me?" It's only with a little curiosity that he asks, if it is tinged and mixed with the rough sounds his voice makes, he wonders if she has learned to take notice. She isn't very old, not even yet ten. He wonders if she can count.

"London." Max decides, for once her silence is very short. Newly named London, he closes his eyes, thinking of a time and place that seems so very far away. When he opens his eyes, he sees that she is curled up on herself, a fetal position on her side; she has her eyes closed. He knows she is not yet asleep.

"Thank you." London murmurs soft in the dark, and if she smiles a little more, she still does not say a word. It is enough, for now, still. He knows he must keep going – if not for his own sake then…- for _hers_.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Well, well," London has come to hate those words, this Mad Scientist that lets him wonder in the dark where he wishes but hides him, chained in the dark underground maze of the lab, "what have we here? Little birds chattering, oh dear, oh my…."

London knows he can not do anything to save her, his Max, still he knows he must try. He stands in front of her dog-sized cage, back ram-rod strait and his eyes furious. Over the months, Max is no longer alone along the row of metal crates; five little ones have joined her. They whisper in the dark together, and give what comfort that can be offered. London knows they envy him, hate him a little for his supposed night-time freedom. None of them can see so very well in the dark and one can not see at all (a retry, London suspects, of his own experimental eyes) not as well as his own delicate day-blind green luminous eyes.

He's never told them what he looks like. What has been done to him, his nails were plucked from his bleeding fingers and black talons he couldn't guess the origins of inputted, in hopes that the alteration would take hold. They had. A further mutation of his skin had taken hold after, and they told him he didn't have _skin_ anymore, but _scales_ small translucent and iridescent; they thought it could be mortified. Into what, they had not said. Still, his skin was as tortuously sensitive as ever.

"My dear," totted the Mad Scientist speaking to London chidingly, "it is not done, making friends – beneath you, my lovely." London shivers, hissing his distaste as the man creeps closer remembering the Mad Scientist touching him reverently in a relish as he half-slept, helpless.

"Don't listen! London, you mustn't listen to that man!" Max, his brave Max, cries out, gasping at her own rashly spoken words as she speaks them, hears them as if she didn't mean say so – what she guesses of makes of the Mad Scientist's words of him, London won't dwell on – she puts her hand to her mouth, biting her palm. She knows she's only made things worse.

Mad Scientist is still then, and as London has never seen him so solemn and damningly frozen-still, London fears.

"Oh, so you think you've earned a name, being given on by these snotty brats. Well, that isn't done, my lovely, you've spoken to them, no doubt – but they have not seen you." Mad Scientist grins, and there is something disarming and charming in it. So much so, that for a moment even London is fooled into thinking he isn't angry as all that. But he is, and what he does is so much worse then what London thought he would do (and that is bad enough, with needles and not-quite sleep and hands touching him in places they certainly shouldn't).

He switches on the light. London howls in protest, shrieking as the light blinds him. He pants for breath, filled with fear at the not-sight, as the Mad Scientist has _never_ done this to him. London cowers, on the floor, his back pressed into the metal cold metal, it does not matter, it is a feeling, at least - something. He hears soft gasps, cries, and _damning silence_ from where he knows the cages to be; then, there are footsteps coming near.

"They will have to be punished, for this, my love – seeing you so, my beauty. You shall learn how unwise you've been." Mad Scientist hovers over him, shadows him, and touches his jaw and tracing to his cheek up to the blind eyes. He feels wetness keenly against his cheeks. His own tears, never before since the first time has anyone made him cry. London snaps his sharp teeth at that hand, and a cold needle pushes up into his neck, painful beneath his skin.

"London – no!" He hears as his limbs grow heavy and his mind drifts, though he has time to wish he hadn't heard Max say anything at all. She's only making it worse for them all.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"L-London, please, please you must wake up…p-please? Don't leave. Don't leave me alone, not like this…" Max pleads with him, for London would know her voice anywhere. She torches his hand, talon fingers and scaled flesh, with her own, reaching for him – to him – as if she wants to reassure herself that his body is still warm; still alive.

"No, it'll never be like this, Max." He murmurs to her, his voice slow and slurring, fighting the drugs and wishing he hasn't woken up at all. It's a selfish thing, but no truer for it.

"What…what have they done to us?" It isn't Max that asks, for Max knows better then to want to ask, by now. It's the boy, tall and pale, blind. London finds himself looking, then, but it is the keen pain on his back, like burning metal, that lets it sink in, damning like a bleed in the brain.

"Wings - we have wings, all of us; grafted." London answers, for no one else can, because they sit in the dark, and London can see while they can not. It's familiar, and London knows that Mad Scientist is watching now, and all this is just for his amusement. Like a pretend play, they are puppets, performing. For a long time, there is nothing said, _for what can be_ said?

"Freaks…he said it, _little birds,_ indeed – fucker." It's hissed by the eldest boy, with dark hair, who calls himself Fang. It stings, even if it is not exactly an accusation of blame.

"It's my fault." London says it, for someone must and better him then any one of them. That would hurt the worst, to hear one of them, his children, say so.

"No, _no it's not_ – they would have done it anyway, they were _planning_ on it." The littlest, Angel, looks up at him, a toddler shouldn't speak so well, yet she does - as if she really can tell. It's reassuring from her in a way it would not be, from anyone else. London lets it sink in and nods though she can not see. Nonetheless, she is satisfied by his seeming acceptance.

"Oh, God…" Dark shin shivers as if cold, and Nudge huddles nearer to Angel and Max, as if seeking warmth, though it is comfort that she craves. London dares not go near them, for all that Max reaches, straining, to hold onto his hand.

"London, please, you couldn't have done anything, Angel is right. What...what they've done to us – it…it's _nothing_ to what they've done to you." Max tells him, squeezing the hold on his hand, tightening as if that alone will make him believe. London takes a breath, looking about the empty metal walled room. It's barren, as if they've been abandoned, a cold comfort. A lie.

"He touched you." The littlest boy says it, when the others dare not. His name is Gasman. For a while London only breaths, in and out, slow and deep, while all the rest seem to hold their breath.

"Yeah, I know." _Better me then you;_ is what London does not say, because something must be said if not that. The continued silence is strained, and London wishes it wasn't. Something will break soon, with the tension so high and solemn, and it might be his sanity.

"You never told me you were a _dragon_!" It's Max that says it, accusing, his bold Max, and London can do nothing but laugh, loud and as reckless and bold as she tries so hard to be, for him. The others snicker soft or ha-ha in whisper, huffing under their breath, quiet even in their amusement, for they know better then to be as noticed as London has made himself be all these long years for their sake, and never did they get the chance to laugh, free. London wishes with all that he is, for them to be free to learn to laugh.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Sir, though the grafting worked, we have to be sure – useless wings are no use to further our cause." His name is Jeb Batchelder. He is only an intern-scientist with great ambition and greater potential. London is kept like some great predator pet at the feet of Mad Scientist, he tries to pretend at lounging and lazy sprawled limbs, to look as if he has no where else to be, and isn't being forced to being played as the let at it's masters feet.

The collar around his neck is lax, the chain played with by Mad Scientist in absent minded laze. He is sure now of his absolute control, and London suspects he is right to think so. London will not risk the children again. His eyes are wrapped (or his head hooded?) to keep the light out, and he is still blind, but at least there is no real pain aching through his mind like a mad migraine. His hands and feet are chained together, because a strait jacket might damage his wings, and London can not stand to have those wings touched because every touch is pain – or, far worse and more damning, a pleasure. Better to have his wrists rubbed raw.

"A good point, very well, take the brats out to play in the sun; may they have little pleasure in it." Jeb walks away, saying nothing else. London knows that this man is different, and he lets hope seep into him that, maybe the children might make some sort of impression upon the man. He already pities them, cares in a way that his human, strange, for all the others see only objects or smart little pet-experiments. Jeb sees humans. It's his weakness, but London sees this as a chance and he would be fool not to use it. To throw it away, well, that would be a waste.

"Hmmm, how old do you think you are, my pet?" Mad Scientist doesn't expect him to speak, but London has kept careful count. It has only been two years; two impossibly long years. His hair was petted thoughtfully; it fell long to his shoulders. London was careful not to move.

"Thirteen, sir?" An aide guessed, rightly, for though the Mad Scientist does not think that London would answer, _someone_ must. Mad Scientist goes quiet, and London knows something like a smile must be crossing his lips.

"Ah…well, he's not yet reached sexual maturity, has he? Let us make it an _interesting_ process, no?" He knows he makes some helpless noise of protest, because Mad Scientist is listening for it. London knows his heart is beating, but it seems only cold sinks into his chest, filling his limbs with cold ice and dread. The press of a needle under his flesh is almost a blessing.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

London wakes, and knows he is not alone. A small hand rests on his chest, a head pressed to where his heart beats. This body pressed to his, thankfully, it is too small to be Mad Scientist playing a game. London lets his eyes open, sightless, and knows he is hooded like a hawk, he sighs, letting the listener and those near know that he's awake.

"What have they done to me, this time?" London asks, his voice a gravely thing ill-used, he knows that of all of them, Fang would answer the most truthfully. London does not let himself think of what _they may have done_ to him, he's gotten too used to it to let himself to dwell on such horrors his mind makes up all too eagerly.

"I'm sorry, London, I couldn't stop _him_. When I came back, they were celebrating it as a success; it was easy for me to drug them." Jeb answers instead of one of London's children, and though it is a surprise to have Jeb speaking to him so easily, London is quiet. In is silence, Max speaks, playing with his long black hair and whispering softly into his ear.

"We've gotten away, London – all of us, we're free." There is wetness against his chest, and London knows that Max is crying. The other children aren't asleep, he hears them breathing and shifting, trying to be quiet – and he knows that is for his sake – they wanted him to sleep while he could. _It must be bad_, _what they've done to me this time_; his mind hisses to him like a lizard-snake, cruel and taunting.

"Its cost was too high." Fang says, and London wouldn't have expected him to say so, because for the children –always before - _any price_ for a chance at freedom did not seem high enough. London just breathes for a long while, waiting, but no one says anything more – so he must urge them on. He must know, because the not knowing – always before it was worse, _the not knowing_.

"What else?" London asks in the midst of their silence, and Max is still and shaking beside him. She won't speak, he knows, and tries not to begrudge her silence.

"I don't know exactly what might happen, London, but, ah, from what I could make out of it, they forced your body to emit pheromones at an increased rate at a gestation rate; when you get older, when you reach _puberty_, you'll be able to become pregnant – to bear children. London, there…there's _something else_," Jeb breaths through his teeth, he is driving, London knows even as he feels keenly the tenseness in the air – can practically taste it – London has never feared anything more in his life then that "_something else_" Jeb won't say, "you know how female dogs and cats, they go into heat – even birds have a mating season, humans only differ that they can have sex and reproduce at any point during a mature lifespan; I'm sorry, London, but they also made you less human, like…_like that._" London can plainly hear the disgust Jeb has for this final offence against nature. Still, he has to be sure he understands.

"I'll go into an _animal-like_ heat?" London puts an empathies on the words, and why not? It's his life, his future – if he lives to see it.

"Yes…" Jeb answers, and there is no cruelty in him, only hopeless thwarted desperation.

"Can you _fix it_, fix me?" London asks, because he has to know for sure that Jeb will do what he can, even if he knows it, saying it – well, sometimes people lie. Jeb hasn't, and won't – not about this.

"No." There is a finality, a _surety_, there that London wishes he could not hear; but he has. He can't deny the truth he hears with his own ears. There is no undoing what's been done in this final physical offense. London has to find a way to live with it, and he will, if it means the other six kids are free, because in the end - he is all they have other then Jeb.

He _won't_ abandon them.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note; yeah, that last part I wasn't expecting either, Harry (AKA London/Bridges) looks more like a flying dragon given human shape, rather then an angelic bird kid with quirky side-effect ability. And, yes, Harry will find out about the magical world and just what being a wizard means soon. I'm kind of looking forward to it! –_bouncy_-


	2. A Monster? …Maybe!

**Wings Of A Wizard**

_Abby Ebon_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Disclaime_r: I do not own "_Harry Potter"; _or, as it turns out,_ "Maximum Ride"_.

_Note_; … I am already noticing a pattern, I read the '_Max_' book previous to the last chapter, and the '_Fang_' book previous to this. Now I'm waiting for more. It's sort of pathetic, really…I just _had_ to go and get 1&2 of the manga-version of the first book. I think this is a 'in-between' books story, and I'm really sorry about that...why? Uh, yeah...updates (what are those again? lol - but not really) ...pairings are sort of up in the air at the moment as they grow up...I can't promise anything but that the chapters are going to be ten-pagers. So no, the first chapter and this one aren't mutant freaks.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_" A Monster? …Maybe!"_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

London breathes it in; his freedom. It smells of pine trees and cold crisp air like newly arriving winter, and something like dirt unearthed. Jeb's opened the back of his van up, and the flock piles out, London following at a slower pace while Max still keeps her fingers wrapped about his hand as if she can not let him go. It's a comfort, and there has been so precious little of that that London does not begrudge her whatever soothing it eases within her.

"He went too far." Jeb breaths, words so soft and sure, as London wobbles out of the door uneasily. He feels weak, and it isn't very nice to know he's pitied.

"Shut up, Jeb, he doesn't need – or want…._that_." Fang says to Jeb, defensive and protective. London can not help but be amused by him. Fang is many things, but he is not swayed in where his loyalties are.

Max keeps a firm hold on him, and he feels Angel quiver her wings beside him, as if by moving them she'll keep him upright. Or lecture Jeb silently. London smiles a little, and feels his own sharp teeth pinch at his lips.

As if his smile summoned him, Fang is beside him, and London knows it to be Fang because Jeb has not moved, and Max is much too small to reach as high as his head. Fang takes off his hawk-hood, pulling a little too roughly at hair and skin, so eager he is to see London and be rid of what confines him; but London does not mind. He is free. He'd forgive much, having this.

London looks around then, and finds it beautiful. A range of mountains so high they touch the sky and part the clouds, the full moon hangs low, lighting everything in mercury silver. Nestled on this mountain is a house that seems to have been plucked and put upon here from below among a grove of trees. It's a nice house, London thinks, but he's never lived in one. Does not remember ever doing so; it does not seem natural that he would now. Still, Max pulls on his hand, in her eager and blunt way, and London won't deny her this pleasure.

He walks, and sees for them while they can not, guiding them in his own way while they unknowingly follow his lead. They cluster about him, not touching – for only Max dares that – but near and hovering, as if to protect him. London does not know what to make of how they act towards him. He remembers keenly how they acted upon first setting sight on him. He won't ask, but he'll watch and wait. See if they mean this to be the truth of how they feel, for they are young – but London isn't. He knows what he's going to do. He'll protect them, whether they want him to, or not. It'd make things easer if they were to accept him, but it isn't something he'll force out of them. They have to trust him for their own reasons, or not at all. There will be no in-between.

Jeb opens the door for them; and it seems to London that is what Jeb is _meant_ to do. Open doors that were closed, lead the way into better days. He can not help trusting Jeb now, a little bit, but London will remember what Jeb had done in the name of science, long after the others have forgiven and forgotten.

"It's so big!" Angel squeals in not so secret delight, her wings fluttering as if to take flight.

"You…you ought to get some sleep. Or are you hungry?" Jeb asks, and London finds it curious that Jeb seems somehow suited to this, as if he knows what he's doing. Has had experience with it. London tenses up, wary. Is this a trap? It's unlike anything ever done before, still, the possibility is there and very real and London is, of course, suspicious. It's a habit that will be hard – if not impossible – to unlearn.

"Daddy…?" A little whisper, awed and frightened, London alone can hear it. He looks then, for the source of that voice. It's a little boy in Big Bird pajamas, clutching a dragon to his chest. He is wide eyed, and hiding in the closet. London blinks, but realizes he is not wrong. He could see the little boy, though London is sure no one else can, with the door _closed_.

Angel and Gasman look between each other; they are siblings and very small and perhaps remember better the foods the world has to offer having lived in it. London won't say what he remembers eating, because it isn't, he knows, what Jeb means to feed them; eating out of trash cans like street kids, well Jeb might become even more sympathetic and horrified, and London isn't sure he can stand much more of that pity. What the School offered was maybe better, and London thinks he might live longer for them having forced him to eat whatever they fed him.

With the others distracted by the promise of food, London wanders to the closet door, touching it with the tip of his finger. A talon scrapes against the wood, leaving a clear imprint. London _still_ can see the little boy; yet the door is really _there_ and solid. He blinks his eyes and opens the door, crouching to the floor so he'll be the first thing the little boy sees; if there really is a little boy.

"_Aiee_!" The little boy, London knows now, is real enough. He flinches away, landing – embarrassingly enough, right on his ass. London hisses, cradling his hypersensitive ears - and it must be a furious sight because Ari goes white; and London hadn't thought little boys could look so scared. London doesn't move, knowing the boy will likely have nightmares enough having come face to face with London. He's a monster after all – or at least looks like it, and it's true enough that he belongs in the dark, as it's only in the dark that he can see.

"Ari..?" Jeb says with familiarity and a little bit of fear in his voice. London doesn't have to look over his shoulder to know the man is now behind him, Ari proves it all by himself by bolting around London and lunging for his father's legs. Wide brown eyes peek at London from behind white scrub pants.

"Daddy!" Ari's proclamation affirms London's guess to the nature of that familiarity. Max is standing a bit behind Jeb, and only London sees the betrayal that twists her face up. Fang is beside London again, and his hand pulls at London urging him upward – there is a unease about Fang as if he's only now realized that London is older and bigger and stranger then the flock – and it took a child crying out for him to realize it. London huffs, and stands, though keeping his distance form Jeb and the little boy. It wouldn't do to stir the child into a panic when the rest of the flock ought to have somewhere safe to spend the night.

"Oh, Ari, it's alright - what are you still doing up?" Jeb asks, even as he plucks the boy from the floor. Helpless giggles burst from his lips, as if he can't help but share his glee in being picked up despite being scared only a moment before.

"I wanted to make sure you came home." Ari mumbles softly, mature and serious for such a little boy.

"It's past your bed time." Jeb is firm, but softness is in his eyes. Ari ducks his head to his chest, glancing to London then to the other curious eyes he's attracted the attention of. He swallows a little, seeing Angel with her white wings unfolded and looking up at him. London knows she must look a little like her namesake with the wide blue eyes and curling gold of her hair.

"What about them?" Ari asks in a stage whisper, that isn't one at all. Gazzy looks to Angel then to Iggy and Fang, frowning then to London as if he doesn't understand what Ari is talking about. Neither of the older boys have a clue, but London knows his guess is probably right in what it means.

"We don't have a bed time." London states softly, ignoring Ari's wide-eyed and mouth gapping look. Monsters, apparently, don't talk. He'd have to remember that for future reference.

"Yes, you do." Jeb looks London in the eyes, and while there isn't anything threatening in him – yet – it makes London nonetheless uneasy.

"No, we don't. We never have gone to bed when we're told. Obviously 'lights out' didn't stop us." If he's a little bitter about reminding Jeb of that, well it was when the wings got grafted onto him and the others. Jeb doesn't flinch from that truth, but the lines around his mouth and eyes are still firm.

"If you're going to eat here, you'll be sleeping here. This is my home; I expect you to respect my wishes and intentions if they are to protect you and help keep you safe and free. There are rules to follow out here." Jeb states, as if London doesn't remember or know that. For all that this is freedom; this is also another kind of test. London is all too sick of tests.

"I remember." London murmurs, because it's the truth - and he's the only one of them who wasn't raised to be put in a cage.

"Then you must know you have no where else to go. No where that's safe." London presses his lips together and says nothing else. He's far from where he raised himself on the streets, there is no going back and if there is one thing he knows and understands now it's that living off the streets isn't for kids. And that's what the flock is, whatever else they might be, they are children. London only nods in agreement, or resignation, for even he isn't sure which it might be.

There is nothing left for London to do but eat, and he's impressed that Jeb fries eggs and trusts London to pour milk and cereal. Eventually everyone gets enough to eat for this first supper, stating favorites and dislikes upon first taste. London goes through it, saying nothing, but thankful that Jeb put only a few lights on, probably on purpose so that London can see without too much pain. The light in the entrance hall is dim, and the fire on the stove isn't too much of a bother. It's thoughtful, but a part of London can't help but wonder what Jeb thinks to gain from him by doing this. Forgiveness? Trust? Both are too precious to afford with this much ease.

"Aren't you hungry?" Iggy asks him softly, and London glances at him with a raised brow, even though the other can't see it.

"I can hear forks on plates, and people taking too loud sips…" Iggy hints, with a glance at Max, who flushes and ducks her head sheepishly.

"No." London says, and finds it for the first time in his life to be the absolute truth. He's many things right now – but not hungry.

"You should eat." Jeb says, insisting. London looks across the table to him, puts his fork into the eggs and brings it to his mouth – and chews. He watches Jeb the whole while, and the little noises the flock makes hush. They watch, and they probably think they know why he's doing this all so deliberately. London knows he could make things difficult for Jeb, but he isn't going to do that. He'll swallow down his pride and take orders.

The others will follow his lead, because they are the flock and they are free in a world they don't understand or know. They need help out here, and if London likes it or not, Jeb is the only help there is for them. The sounds of eating resume, as if London has said its okay. It's the only proof London is going to get that things are still okay with the flock, they trust him, and London is glad for it. If freaks can't trust other freaks, well, they'd be worse off then what they are now.

Eventually they stop eating, because not even mutant bird-kids are bottomless pits. Still, London takes in Jeb's dismayed expression and thinks they might as well be, in so far as Jeb is concerned.

"That was good! Where do we sleep?" Nudge asks, bouncing in place and too wide eyed to be talking about going to bed. Ari blinks blurrily at her, as if he agrees with London's thoughts, Ari had been nibbling on the same edge of the crest for the last five minutes. He's barely keeping his eyes open, yet he still watches and listens to them, and there is something measuring in him that London doesn't know what to make of.

"I have only one extra bedroom, so the boys could …" Jeb starts, but Angel interrupts with a glance to Gazzy.

"Then we'll _all_ take that one." She sounds very firm for someone so little, and there might be a little bit of jealous awe in Ari's eyes that she can say such things to his father so firmly and be listened to. Jeb frowns when Gazzy nods enthusiastically in agreement.

"It isn't normal for girls and boys…" Jeb catches London's eye, and London feels a clenching in his gut, because he thinks he knows why Jeb is being so cautions. He'll not forget what Jeb told him about what the Mad Scientist did to him. Nudge waves her hand over her features and wings.

"What's normal about us? We're bird-kid freaks." There is some dismay in Nudge's words, and maybe a little bitterness, but she grins as if there isn't anything better. It aches that Nudge can pretend to be so happy about that and think no one sees though it. The sound of her voice alone is enough to make Iggy frown in perplexed silence.

"You six share the spare room." London says, the words grinding like bone. He'll deal with his own pain in being separated from them, because it's for the best. Fang tosses him a puzzled glare as if to begin protest, and Max opens her mouth – but Jeb speaks first and she shuts it firmly.

"I have an extra air mattress, we can be roommates London." Jeb states, as if it's easy to work it all out so it's settled. There won't be any changing Jeb's mind now, not unless London argues it – and he won't. He only nods in acknowledgement, as if he had had a part to play in this plan all along. London stands, for he can guess where the bedrooms are, even with the odd double of kitchen and living room; the flock stands to follow him and London trails his fingers along the walls, slowly getting to know the layout – even as Nudge and Max open doors ahead as they explore while Fang lingers near them and Iggy follows London with Angel and Gazzy toddling along after.

Once they pass the bathroom, there are two doors to bedrooms and then another master bedroom with a closed door. The first is clearly Ari's room, and the other across from it has three bunk beds. London smiles a little to see it, because it means this wasn't all that spur of the moment after all and Jeb had _planned_ to take them in (or at least Max and the others, if not London). It's comforting.

A swift arrangement of picking beds is undertaken, Angel choosing the bed under Max, while Fang get's the top bed across from her – with Gazzy taking the bottom of that, leaving Iggy to take the bottom of the third double and Nudge the top of it. Once it's established and settled, with London watching with a half-grin keeping a ear out least things get out of hand, the flock of kids look to London.

"You don't have to share with Jeb, there's room here." Nudge says carefully, and she eyes the beds as if considering shoving them all together and making one big double bed of it. Angel is on her stomach, watching him with a little frown.

"We aren't stupid, London. This really about what _He_ did, isn't it?" Gazzy asks, with a nod to Angel as if to make sure London knows that as young as they may be they are following along with "adult" logic.

"Stay." Angel begs, and London looks away from her so he doesn't give in.

"There isn't any telling what might happen. It isn't safe to be around me until we know for sure what's going to happen." London doesn't like saying it, but it needs saying and he might as well save anyone else the trouble of admitting certain…facts, about himself. About the sort of monster he might be. It makes London sick to think of it. Sick to think he might be reduced to begging for touch, or…well, London lived on the street, he saw how hookers were treated. Like prey. If he knew anything about himself, it was that he wouldn't be turned into prey, and that meant _they_ were. His kids – who he was supposed to protect - needed protection from him, a predator. London wanted to kill himself if it meant crossing that sort of line. He knew he'd find a way to do it too, if necessary.

Still, he kept his eyes down and features adverted so they could read nothing off him. They could not know what he intended to do if he could not control himself, what Jeb would be helpless to prevent – but they, the kids – his flock – might have a chance of stopping him from finishing if he was helpless to his lust like some senseless beast.

"All the more reason to stay – there are more of us then of you, and Jeb is only one person." Fang said softly, guessing to London's reasons for his distance closer then the other children could manage. Max glared at Fang with pressed lips, as if she hadn't wanted London to be reminded of such things. As if he could forget.

"He's an adult. He can handle it." London insisted softly, arguing the point. It was the only way to win with Fang or the others, make them think he knew better. Even if he didn't, even if he was just as scared for himself and his might-have-been actions as they were. A part of him longed to just give in and agree, to huddle into their warmth and sleep content in knowing he was surrounded by others with senses as good as his own and would protected them as they tried to protect him. Still, they were younger, and they were used to him telling them how things ought to be. It was hard to argue so pointedly, yet so simple – so easy – to remember cuttingly that he was a danger to them. He could not trust himself, not until he knew – for sure – what the changes might do to his mind and body.

"Adults like him did this to you. You wouldn't hurt us London. We know you better then that." Iggy argued, having heard Fang and Max hesitate with London. Iggy looked with blind eyes to London, it was eerie and another reminder of the hurt he had dealt them. Iggy's eyes had been an attempt, after all, to duplicate his own heat-vision, though perhaps without the light sensitivity.

"This isn't a debate." London snarled, growl rumbling up from his aching throat. He rarely spoke so much, and seemed to be suffering for it now.

"Maybe is should be." Nudge suggested, looking quickly around at the others – she was already putting her hand up in the air and starting to open her mouth to take a vote, or to argue further when London turned his back to them, as if he hadn't seen or heard her. Nudge closed her mouth with an audible grinding of her teeth. It shocked her into silence. London had never been so dismissive of them. But he could not chance that he'd lose ground and they would be put in danger; because of him.

"Be that as it may; this is _my_ choice." London stated to the hall, a cruel parting shot. As if he chose Jeb's companionship before theirs. He didn't think they would forgive such a choice of him easily. It was for the best, if they hated him for his abruptness with them, they would not chase after so keenly to be close by him.

They would not be hurt – least of all by him.

He trails his fingers down the hall, knowing his nails – or talons? – are scratching the paint and not really caring, because come the morning, he'll be as good as blind. Everything will be too much and too vivid to do something as simple as to see. Jeb is standing outside what London guesses to be the master bedroom, and saying goodnight to Ari, causally – almost dismissive – he nods London into going forward ahead of him.

London won't admit it out loud with Jeb standing behind him, but the moment he is in this room, he hates it. He would have thought, before, that he'd been alone long enough that it would hardly matter any more if he shares a room or not. He's surprised at himself that it does, in fact, matter. London takes notice of the balcony outside curtained floor to ceiling windows directly ahead of him.

Jeb's bed takes up most of the room, located pressed against that wall beside the windows, on that side is a closet and on the other side is a bathroom. London's air mattress is located between the bed and the bathroom, so the morning light won't spill onto him. London knows he's slept on worse, but he won't be so rude as to tell Jeb what he already – surely – knows. London doesn't want to say goodnight, or thank you, so he simply strips and puts himself to bed, tucked under the covers and pretending sleep as he hears Jeb moving around and finally settling onto the mattress.

"I know you won't like hearing this, but I think you've made the right choice." London's eyes are open, eerie silver in the dark, but Jeb will never know because London slept on his side, head turned away. He opens his mouth to say something rude, teeth too white and predatory in the dark, but closes them and his eyes. It isn't worth arguing with the one man who has saved them and as good as given the flock a home. He wonders if Jeb is aware that that name 'flock' implies migration and family and moving on all in one little word. It gives him hope, and he sleeps.

He wakes from a nightmare as the dawn light is a pale and creeping thing, seeping into the room as if it does not belong. London is half blind already, and shivers, because he is cold after dreaming of Mad Scientist and things done while he'd been half-aware, had _known_… and pretended sleep. He'd been weak and frightened, and London knew he wouldn't go back to sleep now, and could not lay in a half-deflated air mattress pretending while Jeb was obvious.

London stood, careful not to make a sound, slipping on the pants he'd worn the day before – he had no undergarments (hadn't warn them, in fact, since the streets) and it'd only made since to sleep in the nude. He wondered if Jeb had guessed, and how he felt with it. London knew he and the flock had only the clothes on their backs, and he knew they'd have to go shopping.

It was second nature to go check on the flock; it wasn't so surprising to see that they weren't asleep. The bunk beds, as he'd guessed last night, had all been shoved together like a giant double bed, with Nudge, Fang and Max at the topmost and Iggy, Gazzy, and Angel at the bottom. Twelve sets of eyes peered at him, one set blind but knowing he was there for the footsteps he'd made and his hand trailing along the wall.

"London!" Angel crowed, triumphant. London only sighed softly in defeat. He came all the way in; closing the door behind him when he'd only intended to take a peek. The six of them sat up, some crossing their legs in bed, some going to him out of instinct. Angel and Gazzy clung to each of his arms while the older two looked on.

"Why aren't you asleep?" London asked in puzzlement, allowing no hint of reproach to show. Jeb would be disappointed with them, maybe, but London had silently expected as much.

"We can't…its strange here, and we were always mostly nocturnal, remember how the scientists always whined about it? It was mostly because sometimes we'd stay up all night waiting for you." Iggy explained, as between them there was a kinship of sorts.

"Is that so?" London mused as Angel led him underhandedly to the bottom collection of beds; he was guided in smoothly and too late found himself tucked between Iggy and Gazzy- trapped between them and with no where to go if he might attempt escape, Angel was smirking at him at having maneuvered him with such ease. Then again, London hadn't really fought her, and Angel read that too.

Like little monkeys, Nudge and Max and Fang invaded the bottom bed, and London reflected that he was glad they were all small, and that when personal space had been defined by a cage you couldn't stand up in, being smoothed by legs, arms, and wings was rather almost comforting.

"Is this some sort of revenge?" London hissed after they had settled on sides and stomachs, wings pressed to their backs or tucked against another member of the flock alternately. He was playing with them, pretending nervousness and unease; Fang blinked back at him from behind Iggy's shoulder and smothered a smile.

"Yes, it's a _puppy_ pile." Nudge giggled, unable to keep her silence after her mock solemn words.

"Uh-huh, Flock pile, cuz' we are the Flock." Gazzy stated simply and yawned, nuzzling his face into the warm skin of London's stomach. London ruffled his hair and closed his own eyes though he knew Max or Fang would sneak peaks to make sure he really was there and with them, as for Angel and Gazzy, they had tucked themselves against him so he couldn't move even if he wanted to without waking them.

The cold knot of dread that had clung throughout their escape, ready to fly or fight, loosened in his gut. The cold fading like the night and the warmth filling him up; it was here, curled and cuddling with the Flock that was his family – his to protect before Jeb ever knew their names - he felt warm and comforted, and he hoped life could be like this forever for them.

London knew it would never be forever, but he dreamed and in the dream they were flying free together into an endless blue sky as far as the eye could see.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O


	3. Seven In Seventh Heaven

**Wings Of A Wizard**

_Abby Ebon_

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Disclaime_r: I do not own "_Harry Potter"; _or, as it turns out,_ "Maximum Ride"_. I just read the "Max" book, okay, and now? Now I'm waiting for more. It's sort of pathetic, really…I just _had_ to go and get 1&2 of the manga-version.

And I read "Fang" – and will read "Angel" when I have money again, or can go to the library when open – the thing about starting a new job, the pay delay!

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"_Seven In Seventh Heaven_"

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

London opened his eyes and could see bright color upon bright light, and knew he was blind. He would never see a clear blue sky during the day. So his dream ended and the morning began. Morning began at noon, so it wasn't really morning at all. London folded his arms and laid his chin upon them, waiting and listening. He knew it would not be long until the others started stirring. Fang snorted in his sleep, Iggy snored, Angel huffed with soft breaths against his neck, and Nudge cuddled between Max and he – who sprawled over them all. Gasman began the morning (that wasn't really morning, but noon) in his usual way.

"Gazzy!" Nudge gagged in protest, waking with a whiff of the foul air. Gasman blinked at her sleepily, startled by her scolding, he struggled to sit up – to argue, but smelt it too and merely blushed.

"She who smelt it dealt it." London stated, with a sleepy smile. He wouldn't know it was returned by Gazzy, for being defended. He did not see, also, that Nudge was that and thought that their comradely smiles were in trickery. She curled her tongue in disgust aiming her wings to whack at London (a common enough game among the winged flock now, and one that London would dodge, when he could see) that it was Fang who woke silently when Iggy stiffed feeling movement keenly – Fang who tackled her off the bottom bunks and onto the floor with a rush of dark feathers and gleaming teeth.

"How dare you!" Fang hissed at her, and Nudge was wide eyed with her own guilt. The flock had long been helpless against adults, and born among them was an unspoken code that they themselves would never offer harm to those weaker then they. Together they were strong, a family of freaks.

"I…I forgot." Nudge gulped, breathless not at her back meeting the floor and stealing her breath, but at the sob that welled up to choke her. London too had forgotten, that the flocks were but children used to him protecting them, being powerful in the dark where monsters like he ruled. Nudge looked to London who stared sightlessly toward her, his eyes eerie green where they should be luminous silver and green. There was no bright silver to them, nothing that caught the light like a cat's eye gleam.

"Forgive me?" Nudge asked it of London, alone whose opinion mattered most. He had been her target, would have been her victim.

"There is nothing to forgive. I trust you all with my life, I am blind without you, lost." London couldn't meet her eyes, for he couldn't see. But his smile, his faith in her, she treasured. Nudge could see the others though, and they were all meeting her eyes, accusation seething within them on behalf of a protector she shared with them. That she had almost betrayed and hurt. Better to forget the days where the flock was turned against each other by the School in the name of science. That would never happen again, though the trigger lay just under the surface of everyone's memory, buried but raw.

"I wish you wouldn't…" Iggy says, but does not finish – he does not after all know exactly what he wishes London wouldn't do - his hand reaching blindly for London's face, fingers pressing over eyelids and eyebrows. What had succeeded with London had failed utterly with Iggy, and though Iggy would never say he blamed London – he'd seen London, once – before the needle had stolen his sight. The sight ghosted in his mind's eye now, as he saw London by his fingers and bones. London had more trust in them then Iggy could ever think to give up to anyone. It was, he felt, wasted on him – but given freely none the less, that trust, that loyalty – it shook his fingers, made them tremble on London's still skin. He'd made no effort to move away, to flinch, as Iggy knew he himself did and could not help.

"It is what it is." London's lips moved under Iggy's fingers, and Iggy couldn't help but blush. To London it would always be that simple, what felt right was right. Iggy could never have that faith – but he could touch it in London. Gazzy's tummy rumbled like thunder, and he giggled nervously when all eyes fell on him. Angel opened her big blue eyes and yawned, blinking at all of them curiously. She looked to London, and though he could not see her, he heard her voice ringing clear like a bell – chiming eagerly though his mind.

"_What did I miss_?" Her sleepy demand is full of nervous energy. He returns amusement and patience learned between chains and stone floors.

_"What else? The noon time rituals of the flock, little Angel – did you sleep well?" _He returns in like way, his voice in her mind smooth and full of fire as it never is aloud. Angel knows him as something like a force of nature, his power bidding only his command; his control is something she wants for herself, with an envy that she hopes she will never need. He taught her it was okay, to speak between the flock this way.

"_I dreamed of feathers falling from the sky, and a green skull gleaming in the night over all._" She is puzzled by what she says and has dreamed, but London is chill along his spine. He wonders if this link between them is doing more harm then good, if his very dreams spill over to taint her. Angel feels that instinctual retreating and holds onto the link, drags at it and clings.

"_Why_!" Is her silent shout as tears begin to fill her eyes as she watches London in the daylight, he is so powerful but helpless, and refuses any kind of weakness in himself. It is a mix she does not understand, but is determined to help.

"Angel, what's wrong?" Gazzy asks his sister softly, wide eyed and looking about protectively for what could cause her to cry. Angel takes deep breaths, holding to that link as it stills inside her, waiting for her to let go. It's enduring and Angel knows that no matter how long she clings to the link, she'll falter for lack of rest, and be alone within her own head.

"He…he thinks he's bad for me! For us!" Is what she says aloud and accusing. For the first time Angel digs into London's mind, and searches wildly for what's making him like this _so she can fix it_.

London does flinch from –her - them then, for the first time. Angel determines it to be the last.

"What, how?" Max demands, her frustration and puzzlement plain and honest.

"Broken." London says for himself, correcting – his gaze is vague but stern. His voice pleads. He does not see them, but he can see her, what Angel is doing so recklessly. He can stop her, but it will hurt her, and London does not really think that Angel will hurt him on purpose – it is a question of defending himself (and hurting her), or protecting her (and who cares, really, what happens to him?). A line he can not cross.

Angel sees that, bites her lips, and presses in _and in and in_, digging as close as she can into London's mind so he might never escape. She doesn't like what she's doing, and for the first time since she learnt to do this and London taught her it was right and good to use her gift, she feels wrong and dirty.

London looks sightlessly toward her, and Angel closes her eyes and prays. Not to the God she is named after the messengers of, but to London whose mind she's tangled within her own so there is no parting them now without killing the both of them. A part of Angel wants out and away, and she knows it for instinct and a melding of what London wants – but she prays, softly.

_"Please, London – you know what's in yourself, and now I do too. I know you, as no one before has and no one now ever will."_ Possessive and fierce, this Angel promises. She feels that weight of wrong in her, and guilt eats at her that she's done this and London hasn't fought and hurt her. She's stolen something of London, and no one will take it because it's_ hers._ It's weighted and equaled and judged and passed between them, equally. Angel is as much London as London is Angel, and they are as nearly one as they will ever come.

"_You are a part of the flock and we are whole with you. We can not survive without you. I love you. If you are broken so are we all, together we are whole, we are the flock_!" Angel strains and struggles and grasps out- aware of Gazzy holding her hand, of Max hugging her little body (still as sleep) and Iggy feeling her head. Aware in a flash of Fang shouting in London's unaware features, for all of Fang's fierce voice, his touch on either side of London's head is warm and soothing: that Nudge has tears in her eyes, and holds London's still body (so still, and lifeless, like death) which she would have struck down only this morning. Angel senses them all, and touch makes it easer to gather their minds together like strings, and Angel holds it within her mind, showing them all to London gently as cupped hands.

"_We are the flock! You are ours_!" It is cold, so cold, so suddenly, and Angel is aware again, like a breath of air above the sea, precious and life-giving, all their bodies are still like puppets with cut strings. Angel has their lives – their minds – gathered in her cupped hands, showing them off to London who is so silent Angel wonders what she's done to all of them. If she can undo it, she doesn't know and is so scared all she can do is hang on – to London, to Gazzy (her farting big brother, protective and good), to Max (so bold and proud), to Fang (fierce and dark), to Iggy (noble and gentle), to Nudge (playful and kind), and hold them together and wait. She doesn't know for what. Or what will happen if London denies this, denies them this.

She can't do anything, for fear clogs her throat, freezes her. _She can't fix this_, she meant only to fix London, but she's done something bad, truly bad – and she feels that London is aware of it.

So very, very aware of all of this- what it means, forever and ever, where Angel is not. She can only think that she should have waited, that it was meant to be a choice split between them all, and it is not. She will spend the rest of her life making up for this, if only London _does something_.

Finally, finally, London stirs.

"_I am yours, as you are mine_." He accepts, and warmth and light and all good things well up in Angel, she feels, and it feels right. And it wells up, that power in London that Angel likens only to the nature of world, or the world's origin, like magic; it wells up and binds them, warm and accepting. They are a web, with separate stings, but connected to each other – not merely though Angel and London, but it's spread between them all, an equally entrapping net to bind them.

There is no getting rid of it, no getting away from it.

It's a part of them all, within them one is all, and all is one.

_Mine_, the thought rouses London, protective and rearing. He gasps, fully awake and aware, and Fang is touching his face, words ringing in his ears that he now hears to remember.

("Who is broken?" Gazzy's puzzled musing…"Why is London bleeding?" Nudge, hesitant and panicked…"Angel, Angel? Wake up sweetie – London's not broken!" Max, crooning…. "Max!" Fang, crying out as London slumps like he won't ever wake…"What can I do?" Iggy, demanding and sounding like tears_…_ "Please, please."...)

"What _was_ that?" Fang's words slur, drunken. His eyes are open, and he is grinning at the sight of London looking back at him. He's not quite himself, but London forgives Fang that – none of them will be only themselves, and its final doing was his fault. He hadn't had a choice: it was –literally - do or die. One and all.

"_That_ was Angel." London can not take the blame, and Angel's big blue eyes blink up at him triumphantly. She isn't sorry in the least, and he wonders if one day she will be.

"It wasn't all me! It was you –and, and all of us!" Angel sputters as she starts, and looks about for agreement. She gets blinks and blank faces. They don't know what's been done, but they will.

"Oh." Nudge says, faintly, closing her eyes as like a wave crashing to the shore (into her) she feels the weight of them all gathered at once.

"I have a headache…" Iggy says, softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Angel looks to London, biting her lip and wide eyed, and he sighs.

"Hey, hey!" Gazzy whimpers, feeling small and crushed.

"Enough!" Max shouts out, but it does no good. Angel and London put them all together, but it is London goes to work pulling to parting them enough that their thoughts are their own, and they have to really want, have to reach out, in order to _feel and think_ to and with another of their flock. They are separate parts of a whole. It works, though it is new and raw.

"Thank you." Max says, short and stinging. Angel pats her hand, for rebuke or comfort, though London doesn't see it – he gets an echo of the feeling of it. He can't help that or change it, and Angel welcomes that small connection, and does not begrudge him it. He can feel what they do, both within and out, as they do. In that way he is not blind.

"Now," Fang shakes his head free of the feelings and thoughts of the flock, "will one of you – Angel, London – please explain what's going on?" Fang isn't accusing, but narrow eyed and sharp, his wings half raised as if to fly. Angel meets his eyes and her chin is raised, determined to be heard.

"I woke up, I'd had a nightmare – about death, falling feathers, green skulls – it seems silly now…but. It had scared me. I asked," Angel taps her finger to her temple, "London what had happened to wake me. It had seemed I couldn't wake from the dream. I told him about the dream, and he….shattered, it seemed to me. He was broken, bleeding – as if, no – no I'm sure. He was dying. He was killing himself. He thought he'd hurt me by that stupid dream, thought it was his and he was infecting me – us – with his, his bleeding in his brain? I wouldn't let him die, I showed him what he had to live for – in us, but I did it wrong, and he knew if he died he'd take me – take us – with him. He did something else instead, and here we are, alive and whole. We are the flock." A smile of enlightenment creeps over Angel's face. Max runs her fingers though golden hair, her eyes soft. London knows that she is safe from blame. He is not, he is tense and feels strange – as if he doesn't know where he is and the ground is like sand, sinking under him.

"London…?" Nudge whispers – so near a whimper- and it sounds as if she's going to cry.

"Say something!" Fang demands of him, his fingers curling helplessly against London's face.

"I can not undo it." He finally says, like a plea. All the scientific experiments in the world, the worst and more, and he – the freak, the monster – who did not mean to do what has been done, may ruin them.

"Is Angel right, were you killing yourself while we…we just _sat here_?" It's Iggy's demand that shakes London, that has him look in Iggy's direction, where Gazzy hold's Angel's hand his grip tight enough to be while knuckled, and Max holds her little body, warm and safe. She is alive, if he had made any other choice – she would not be. And he would be a monster, dead – but a monster. Now he's tied to them, and he welcomes each echoing touch he feels ringing in his head, for it means that he could no more hurt them then hurt himself.

"Look at me." London demands of them, flicking his forked tongue and his sharp teeth.

"What do you see?" His wings rise up, red like blood, to shadow them all. They are something bat-like – where theirs are like a bird - but feathered: something strange and primal. They are meant to be dangerous.

His question is not meant to be answered, but is.

"A brother…" Fang says it, his own dark wings reaching up to touch, to cover London's own with his. It's a gesture both tender and trusting. But they must never trust him, above all - London knows that.

"I am no one's brother." London hisses, menacing – Fang's eyes are wide at that denial, and London uses it to his own advantage, with those dark wings so vulnerable above his own he moves, and for the first time the flock realizes how very fast London can move. They see then the talons – not merely on London's hands and feet, but in his wings, a talon thumb at each wing joint, like a raptor's claw. He has only to press down to tear into Fang's delicate wings, to break and maim him. Fang is pinned beneath him, helplessly, like any common butterfly. Among them, only London's wings are weapons.

"Think, you fool – think of the Erasers." They try not to, and Fang does not flinch from London. Not even now. London looks away from that fierce feeling of belief in him, that pride and surety in a bond, not of Angel's doing, but based something more then mere survival. He can't escape it, for Fang is reaching to touch their minds though the link.

"Street kids – _like me_. Monsters – _like me_. Too fast, too fierce – _like me._ Do you not see what you've done Angel?" London is blind when he looks to Angel, but Fang feels him tremble. He knows London's strengths, and believes whole heartedly that London will not hurt him, that this is a show to get them to run as fast and as far away as they can from him. Fang knows what will happen to London after that, he would go back to the School and make it a ruin, make it burn. He'd die alone, like that. The surety of that knowledge fills Fang, and maybe it leaks from London – but Fang shoves in thought his bond with the others, what they risk. What London thinks his life is worth – is nothing, isn't worth living, without them – without the flock.

"You are not an Eraser." This Fang says in all surety. Max looks between Fang and London, and relaxes, trusting in Fang to know what he's doing. London does not – can not – see this, but he _feels_ it. Feels the bond binding them one and all, and knows he can not break it this way.

"No? No, I am worse something primal and predator. I am a _work in progress_." London's voice is full of self disgust. They all feel it.

"You are a protector. _Our_ protector - and _you are good_, London." As it is Iggy (who is blind, like him) that says that, London doesn't argue – he can't. He's tried and failed, and he knows it – the bond can't be broken, not so simply as that. It's something he's done – that Angel offered, choice or no choice among the other flock. Iggy accepts it, accepts him, and London couldn't live with himself if Iggy hated him.

"I want the bond…" Nudge says, her closed eyes flickering as if in REM sleep.

"One is all, all is one." Angel quips with a smile, and London resolves to never let her read _The Three Musketeers_.

"I'll never regret it if it means you're alive. _Never_." Max vows her eyes full of the old fondness that London can't turn away from. For her he changed his name for the third time, the final time – he's deemed it to be, and he'll live up to the gift of that name that means freedom to them.

"Better alive then dead, any day, any way." Gazzy agrees, and London sighs.

"So be it." And just like that London is off of Fang and standing on his own, fingers on the wall. His look is expectant and sure enough its Gasman's stomach that growls. A faint smile curls his lips, but his eyes are closed. Iggy huffs, but that does not stop Gazzy from gripping his hand and totting him out the door, clinging to that hand. It's sure that Gazzy does not need the company, but keeps it to be Iggy's guide.

Nudge gathers up a yawning Angel in her arms, letting the more formidable Max and Fang take London under their wing, though not literally. London keeps his eyes tightly closed; to open them with the sunlight filling the house would pain him. In the bedroom the curtains had been drawn and the light dimmed, not so now.

"Wow! Look at it; mountains as far as the eye can see! And we're up here, in the middle of all of it." London sees though Angel's eyes as she peers though the windows all around them.

"Ah, good morning – did you all sleep soundly?" It's Jeb that asks but that he says nothing about London coming into the room with the flock all around him. It brings sharply to mind his impending…mating. That there is no telling when and he does not want to be about the flock when it begins. He seeks in himself for any hint of it, but there is nothing but the flock.

"Not really." Angel is young and blunt, and Max snickers under her breath, tickling London's ear.

"You're not to take London away again. We've decided it." Fang states, plainly it's a demand that can not be denied and will not be bent. His gaze underlines that plainly, and all the flock feels at ease with that, Max nodding along with the rest. Fang does not need to bring to blame that London was left alone, and this bond between them all was the result of it. They unanimously did not regret the bond that bound them, but they were uneasy with what else might happen in the wake of it.

Jeb doesn't address Fang's words, instead he gestures to the table and its oatmeal and applesauce and grapes and mango and watermelon, with toast roasted and buttered. London sits between Max and Fang, and if it's a gesture in the making, he had not made it. He eats, as do the rest, because it's what Jeb expects, and London had decided already – he would not undermine Jeb, he'd set the best possible example, and any outcome the flock, unruly and underage, decided to chose was a direction unto themselves.

"You took so long that I and Ari went shopping for you." Jeb speaks up as they finish, and he nods to the shopping bags along the hall wall. It isn't asked or answered, how Jeb came to know their sizes - but that he dares determines what the flock should ware, that makes London, look with closed eyes to where Jeb sits. It is a silent protest that the flock would not have caught, had they not been bonded.

"Anything you do not like, we can trade in for something else." It's a mild admittance of wrong, but London says nothing. It's Fang that watches as Iggy takes his knife in hand and with the smaller Gazzy wobbling to the walls with the bags. Iggy sits where Gazzy bids and Jeb can do nothing but watch as Gazzy and Angel take shirts out no matter size or style and tell Iggy where they need cutting.

"We need room for our wings." Nudge explains with a smile. London does not smile, though he can guess what is happening. Max tugs at his hand, and London stands gracefully as if it were his plan all along.

"Where is Ari?" London asks – though his face it toward the flock, for he may be blind but he has very good hearing. There is no child here that is not of his flock.

"At school." Jeb regrets the word as soon as it is uttered, that much is clear. The flock hears it and thinks of cages, and dogs and the gleaming eyes of eager Erasers. They are still and subdued, even if they do not mean to be so. It is wrong. London knows he will try for the rest of his life to change that way of thinking, but like the Erasers, he fears he'll be too short lived to be of use.

That is also why he'd tried to break the bond when it was new and they were waking, for if he dies – if any of them dies – he does not know if they would all die as one, or if after the survivors (if any) would want life.

"Not _the School_, a preschool. It's…different." Jeb's protest is lost on them. It is only when Max attempts to strip out of her tan scrub shirt that Jeb, wide eyed protests, again.

"It isn't proper to do that Max, between young women and young men must be discretion – privacy." London knows that the red of Max's cheeks isn't shame but anger.

"It's hard to think of that, having been brought up in a cage." Her voice is soft and scathing, but when Nudge takes up Angel and the crinkling bags of clothing meant for the girls, Max follows her into another room. Better that Max should leave then fight over such a simple thing with Jeb.

"Leave." London demands of Jeb, and when Jeb frowns, in puzzlement – he doesn't back down.

"You were a _scientist_." Fang points out, his face grim: Jeb flushes, in shame – he remembers too well what London faced with Mad Scientist, and the displays that had been commonplace, between London in chains as a pet, and the Mad Scientist master over all.

It isn't for _those_ reasons alone that London insists, for whatever he faced, the flock had shared in smaller measures. What should have caused humiliation and shame had been scraped out of them as if with a knife.

"How about these pants, navy…?" The material Fang passed to him felt fine, like something for sports. London frowns, but doesn't complain.

"Any jeans…?" London heard Iggy ask of Gazzy.

"Blue and black, only those two colors I'm afraid." Gazzy mutters, fingers crinkling bags in sharp bursts of sound that London makes a point not to flinch from.

"Unimaginative lout..." Iggy complains, but holds out his hand expectantly. Fang sees that their blue jeans, and snorts.

"Would you rather pink?" Gazzy asks brightly, already sporting a fire engine red shirt and just shot me orange. Fang isn't sure if he's entirely kidding, Gazzy just might think pink would go well with Iggy's cream skin. Gazzy eyes the pink shit Nudge had left behind in a huff of disgust – perhaps only Angel would ware it, if it were her size at all.

"What did you give me?" Iggy pauses suspiciously, his hands on the edge of his pants.

"Blue." Fang says, before Gazzy can say. Iggy rolls his eyes but shimmies into them, they fit, and he mockingly holds his hands up.

"How do they look?" It's a question that isn't really meant to be answered, but Gazzy does, in his own way.

"Are they tight?" His question makes Iggy's nose scrunch in confusion.

"No." It's questioning, worrying at what they see and he can't.

"Then they are fine and you're not turning into a girl." Gazzy declares, and throws a black shirt which Iggy catches, smirking.

"It's black." Fang states in warning before Iggy can ask, and the blind boy curls his lip and tosses the shirt toward Fang. Fang likes it just fine, thank you – he'd also taken the black jeans before Gazzy could hand them over for Iggy to reject.

"Is there something tan, brown, or gold?" Iggy lists off his fingers what he thinks goes well with blue jeans. Gazzy finds a bright yellow shirt, looks to Fang who shakes his head "_no_" once and sets it aside. There is a brown one, dark, with fuzz like velvet. He puts it into Iggy's outstretched hand, and when Fang makes no noise of protest, slides it over his shoulders and waist. Fang is wearing the black jeans and black shirt, and now its London's turn.

"What goes with navy blue?" Iggy asks them aloud, tapping his chin.

"Remember that I can see better then the lot of you come night time." London warns, against any sort of mischief. They are boys and teenagers, and though London does love them like family, he wouldn't trust their sense of style against the Devil.

"Yes, sir." Gazzy whines mockingly, but points out the army green with a grin.

"Army green?" Fang suggests aloud, knowing better then to trick London. London clenches his eyes closed, as if with a headache. It could be worse.

"Sure." Short, and with a long suffering sigh.

It's handed over and London is helped to dress by Fang and suffers no sting to his dignity, blind and however helpless he is. Iggy had suffered just the same. The girls clamor in, and Fang eyes them.

"Max is in a grey sweater and red pants. Nudge has a fashion sense, blue blouse and khaki pants. Angel is in baby blue and peach." He announces it all in one, though Nudge giggles: London can't help but be a little impressed.

"Let's go outside!" Angel demands at once, having had enough at being closeted inside. London couldn't agree more, and wonders if his name, that of a big city, is truly all that appropriate after all.

It's day out, and he can't see – yet. Max leads him with the lightest of touches on his hand. It's strange but he can feel her movements though that little sink-on-skin contact, where she bends her knees, where she takes a step to avoid something. He mimics her effortlessly; maybe it is only that he's lived so long in the dark and gotten used to it, imagines things. He hopes that is all it is, but he doesn't think so. Not really. He feels the warmth of the sun on his skin and doesn't know how long it's been since he last felt it. A long time, that much he knows. He can't see, but he can hear – probably better then most.

He hears a sound that shatters everything, all peace and hope and dreams. Copters and something like the howl of wolves in the distance.

"Flee to the trees." He tells them, when they look to him – unable to help themselves in the old instincts that creep out of the façade of children in new clothes, facing reality. Their reality is this, to be predator or prey.

Come what may, the bond sings between the seven of them – they will not be caged again. They are free.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O


End file.
